Selway River

And so we went camping on the Selway river here in Idaho. We drove up from Lewiston which sits on the Snake river. A huge river for someone like me from Arizona until you realize it is merely a component of the Columbia.

The highway departs the Snake and proceeds up the Clearwater river. Here in these basalt cliffs covered with blonde grass in the one hundred degree heat the Clearwater flows cold and determined past us as we proceed upstream.

Basalt gives way to granite and the blonde grass surrenders to ponderosa pine as the highway hugs the eastern shore.

The Clearwater, that origin river of the Nez Perce Indians. Their final desperate race across the west from the calvary determined to exterminate them or bring them to heel. The Nez Perce finally captured shy of the refuge of the Canadian border. A small reservation was granted them in this territory. Here in this valley is the magma heap of the ‘heart of the monster’ from their origin story.

Here too is the route Louis and Clarke took as they made their descent towards the Pacific ocean after crossing the Lolo pass.

We are heading further upstream to where the Selway makes its entrance and joins the Lochsa to form the Clearwater to become part of the great lineage of the Columbia river basin.

The Selway river valley narrows as we escape the mountain homes of people and rattle up the gravel road. We find a camp along the roadside and the river as the sun lowers itself and illuminates parts of the valley. Here in the evening the air is alive with birdsong.

The Northern Rough-winged Swallow’s short buzzy call fills the air over the river, as do their swoops and dives.

A young Spotted Sandpiper walks the sand and rocks of the shore plucking up food from the water. While a parent attempts to distract us with its pips and piping from the rocks and over the water.

If you watch all of this you may fail to see the lazy wing strokes of the young bald eagle as it patrols up and down stream above the treetops. Its head plumage not quite filled-out in bright clean white.

Here on the cool sand near the shore there is a band of moist air full of riverine smells as the day’s dry heat dissipates. The air currents reverse course now and flow like cool rivers of air down the forested slopes slipping between the Douglas fir, Red cedar, Ponderosa pine, Pacific yew, and Larch to settle on the river surface.

The sun has set and the sounds are quieting and shifting. The noisy melodic call of the robin on the far shore draws more attention than the mute probing call of the snipe just beyond the rocks. And yes the Swainson’s Thrushes are ricocheting their calls up and down the river in some sweet whistly competition.

The water is smooth and rendered in the reflected fading verdant green of the forested shores.

And thoughts flash by in the tranquil mood of the river. The white noise rush of water downstream and the smooth roiled flow of the water.

There is something special to dwell in a place if only for three days. To sit beside the same stretch of river for consecutive mornings and evenings.

For one, there are the Common Mergansers who drift downstream. Confusing at first, they all seem to be immature from the look of their plumage. Their antics, while amusing, also seem baffling.

They swim with the current with their noses and eyes under the surface. Just a fleet of flat gray backs and the backs of their russet heads rushing downstream. They are looking for small fish in the current of the far shore.

Occasionally they dive to catch a deeper fish. Then suddenly they rush towards one group or up ahead. Do they see fish or do the others alert them? The water is clear and they can no doubt see far.

In no time at all they have moved past this piece of the river. Any sound they make covered by the sound of rushing water. They would be so easy to miss. As would the gray-white flash of them winging back upstream to start over again.

I watched one pair while a group drifted downstream and joined the pair. As I videoed the group I assume the pair had joined them until a bird call sounded close on the water and I looked up from the camera to see the pair moving upstream while the others continued downstream.

These patterns have of course been repeated over centuries. They are the enduring traditions of the wild and wilderness. The seasons, growth and death. The flow of water, the movement of rock. The wind, snows, frost, thunderstorms, and perfect sunny days where the plants almost squeek with growth and renewal.

How many centuries has the bald eagle cruised hourly up and down this river? The flights of swallows harvesting invisible insects. The fish partaking of the same harvest in silvery mercurial leaps.

And how is one not moved deeply and perhaps to tears by the immense beauty and mystery of this world.

(To be continued…)